This phone’s timer had only one setting. Twenty minutes.

Was it her subconscious or Ronan’s that had guessed she might come looking for it at some point? Which one of them hadn’t trusted her? She wondered if she could go back to that life. Everything seemed imaginary with that little sleep. Surely it had been worse than this reality.

Surely.

Hennessy tried not to think about the sound of Jordan’s voice.

She tried not to think of the sound of her voice talking to Declan.

Little ghost. Hennessy was haunting Jordan’s life. She knew which of them was the more vital Jordan Hennessy.

The hideous feeling grew and grew in her. She knew if she went to Ronan and Bryde, they’d whisk her off into a dream full of impossible things, thinking this would remind her of the joy of dreaming. They never considered how it only reminded her of the joy of their dreaming. No, she needed to deal with this herself.

She just wanted to put this feeling down for a few minutes. Everyone else in the world could sleep it off.

Not Hennessy.

It was always the Lace. Always going to be the Lace.

Closing her eyes, Hennessy thought back to that last time she’d seen Jordan. She ignored the little mean voice. She was sure Jordan hadn’t wanted to leave Hennessy. She was sure it had been Hennessy’s idea to send her off with Declan for safekeeping. She was sure Jordan had believed in her.

She was sure.

Shrugging off the sheet, Hennessy climbed off the mattress. She didn’t set the timer. Instead, she asked her phone to show her one of John White Alexander’s paintings. He was one of their favorites. Jordan and Hennessy. Hennessy and Jordan.

She went to the desk covered with art supplies, squeezed some paint out, and picked up one of the brushes.

Then she began to do one thing, at least, that she knew she was good at: forging someone else’s brilliance.

Chapter 28

Ronan woke with a start.

He was in the top bunk in the room he was sharing with Bryde. It was still dark.

He rolled over quietly to see if Bryde was sleeping.

The lower bunk was empty, the blankets tossed aside. Ronan grabbed his jeans from where they were tossed at the end of his bunk, his jacket from the plastic unicorn head on the wall, and his boots from beside the door.

He stepped quietly into the dark hallway.

Bryde crouched there over a collapsed form. Matthew. One of Matthew’s hands was palm up, and in it was a little figurine of a hawk. He was obviously dead.

“What did you do?” Ronan snarled.

“Correlation is not causation, Ronan Lynch,” Bryde said. Adam appeared briefly at the end of the hall and, just as quick, was gone.

“What did you do?”

Bryde said, “Wake up.”

Ronan woke with a start.